Taps, or: The Doctor Does A Nice Thing
by Exterminatedaffodils123
Summary: Graham thinks he's left the tap running; the Doctor decides to help. Things go downhill from there.


'Graham, for the last time, you are in a time machine that can travel between countless worlds and lifetimes, that can take you from the dawn of creation to the heat death of the universe. From the Lolian Hordes of Magna Eight, to the Quark Devastations, to before even time itself.'

'Yeah, and I get that,' Graham replied. 'But I just want to check I've turned the tap off.'

'Oh taps!' the Doctor exclaimed, flicking a lever on the TARDIS console. 'Taps, taps, taps, taps, taps! There's billions of the things on your planet, your _one_ isn't going to make any difference.'

Graham huffed. 'It does if you pay the utility bill. Look, I'm not asking for much – just pop back, I'll run in, double-check and we can be off again.' He pointed. 'And Ryan thinks he's left his phone charger there.'

'But –'

' _And_ Yaz said she wants to make sure she's set Bake Off to record.'

'Fine!' The Doctor threw her hands up in the air. 'Fine! _Humans_ ,' she muttered, with more than a little despair. 'Offer them time and space, and what do they want to do? Go home! It's a good thing Neil Armstrong wasn't a human.'

'Erm… he was.'

'Oh?' The Doctor gave a knowing look. 'What's "Neil A" backwards? Not my best pseudonym, I'll admit…'

It was night as the TARDIS arrived outside the house. Well, she was at least ninety per cent sure it was night – it was dark and cold. But it was also Sheffield, so that was nothing new.

The Doctor stepped out of the TARDIS, stuffing her hands into her pockets. Her friends were asleep at the moment – humans spent an annoyingly long amount of time doing that. It seemed such a waste, six, seven, eight hours at a time frittered away just lying in a bed. Still, never mind.

She clambered in through the window with cat-like agility… if the cat had just been drugged and tied three of its legs together. The vase clattered noisily to the ground beneath her, shattering into pieces. The Doctor shushed it, then stood up slowly.

Running water. There was definitely running water. The Doctor followed the sound into the bathroom – badly named, given there wasn't actually a bath in it.

She stalked into the shower-sink-towels-mirror-toiletroom. There, in the corner, a metal tap churned out a steady stream of water. The Doctor twisted the knob, until the water eased to a gentle dripping, and then shut off altogether.

She brushed her hands off. 'There we go,' she said to herself, 'that was easy.'

Now for Yaz's cake thing. The Doctor flicked through the channels on the television. How did humans fit in the time to watch so much rubbish? Programmes about dancing, programmes about schoolchildren, programmes about dancing schoolchildren; she lost about fifty IQ points just reading the titles. Still, Yaz knew what she wanted – the Doctor set it to record.

Finally, Ryan's charger. That was easy – it was on the counter in the kitchen, where he always left it. As the Doctor scooped it up, a thought flickered through her mind. With a few minor modifications, she could make the charger up to four hundred per cent more efficient. That'd be nice; he'd like that.

Grabbing a butter knife from the top drawer, the Doctor got to work.

That's where things started to go wrong.

After she'd finished that job, the Doctor had another idea. Maybe Graham, Yaz and Ryan would like some food when they woke up – that was a thing, wasn't it? Omelettes, humans seemed to like them. She cracked the eggs into the pan and watched them bubble. Then she changed her mind – actually, scrambled eggs were much nicer, weren't they? She stabbed manically at the mixture until it was well and truly scrambled.

Come to mention it, the walls could do with a lick of paint. That would be an even nicer surprise for when they woke up. Prising open the tins of paint, the Doctor dipped the brush – well, a bundled up shirt, but close enough – and began painting the walls.

She was halfway through the kitchen wall when another bright idea popped into her head. Why have scrambled eggs when you could have pancakes instead?! She found the pancake mixture in the top cupboard and dolloped it into the pan. She grinned. There, that was much better.

The trio emerged from the TARDIS a few hours later.

'Doctor?' called Yaz, looking up and down the street.

Ryan pointed them towards the broken window; they shared a look of worry. Burglars? Graham took the lead, going to unlock the door.

When they stepped inside, they wished it had been burglars. Mad smears of green paint were spread across walls seemingly at random; the cutlery drawer had been upended, most of the utensils somehow welded together. That ugly purple vase had been broken then glued back together – only now, it was a bust of Julius Caesar. Graham picked it up and examined it in astonishment.

'Oh… my… god.' Ryan had moved into the kitchen. Three pans were filled with _something_ – they had no idea what, but whatever it was, it had been burnt to a crisp, lurid blues and reds and greens scorched to black.

Yaz switched on the television. No matter what she did, which buttons she pressed, it was now showing nothing besides Bake Off.

Ryan plugged his phone in – the moment he did, it promptly exploded in his face.

They found the Doctor in the garden, playing with the wind chimes. She turned to face them, and was met with three scowls.

'Okay, things might have gone a _bit_ skewwhiff,' she said. 'But look on the bright side.' She smiled. 'At least now the tap's turned off.'


End file.
